


you open always petal by petal

by ellenm (quasiradiant)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quasiradiant/pseuds/ellenm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>though i have closed myself as fingers, / you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens / (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose. (or, clarke and lexa realize it again.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you open always petal by petal

Spring blooms, heavy with wisteria and crape myrtle, long before Clarke finds Polis. The guards who bring her to Lexa’s throne room shine under their sweat.

 

Summer is breaking, and Clarke has arrived, and Lexa’s heart cracks in the burgeoning heat.

 

+

 

Lexa shows her the city, its alleyways and concrete bunkers hidden under blankets of ivy. The entire population, all ten thousand four hundred sixty three, avoids them carefully. Summer grows around them like a bubble, and the heat breaks their defenses.

 

One day, Clarke says, “I forgive you, you know.” A forgotten hibiscus flowers bravely in unforgiving soil. Clarke plucks a blossom and offers it to Lexa.

 

Lexa tucks the gaudy orange red flower in her summer armor. “I’ve known,” Lexa says.

 

Clarke touches Lexa’s hand, and they walk that way until their slippery palms won’t hold.

 

+

 

Clarke has her own room but she hardly seems to know it. She sleeps on a chaise in Lexa’s room. She never asked permission and Lexa never granted it, but now it’s a habit.

 

Lexa wakes up and sees Clarke’s yellow hair messy on her pillow and her naked leg thrown out from beneath the sheet. There is no movement in the air at all. Clarke’s breasts rise and fall under the sheet as she breathes.

 

Lexa watches until her throat hurts from not speaking. She will be patient, she will be the most patient.

 

She will wait until the world ends once again.

 

+

 

Weeks slip by like boiled honey. The leaves burn off the trees and bougainvillea chokes the city square. Children and half-dressed women splash in public fountains.

 

Clarke says, “It was never hot on the Ark. It’s intolerable.”

 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” Lexa says seriously. Her people’s heavy winter clothes have melted away to sleeveless tunics, roughspun loose trousers, wide-brimmed straw hats.

 

Clarke’s insistence on denim wears away in the heat. She is a Roman goddess from a torn textbook in white linen, and Lexa can’t look at her.

 

“You picked it!” Clarke complains. “It’s not my fault if I look terrible.” Her face and shoulders are sunburnt and freckled.

 

Lexa shakes her head. “It fits you perfectly.”

 

When she finally looks, Clarke is staring at her open-mouthed and the only sound is a hungry summer bird.

 

+

 

“Do you remember before,” Clarke begins. Their feet are cool in a flowing, flowering creek. “Before Mount Weather.”

 

Clarke’s skirt is rucked up by the rocks, and her thighs are pink from the sun. Lexa carefully does not look. “Of course,” Lexa says.

 

“We kissed,” Clarke says.

 

“We did,” Lexa agrees.

 

Clarke puts her hand over Lexa’s. “Haven’t you forgiven me?” Clarke asks quietly. A fish breaks the surface of the water, and Lexa examines it before she replies.

 

“There was never anything to forgive,” Lexa says. “You acted honorably, even when I could not.”

 

Clarke breathes out through open lips. “So,” she finally says, “something must have changed. For you. About me.”

 

Lexa shakes her head. “Nothing has changed.”

 

Clarke’s hand slides up until her fingers are wrapped around Lexa’s wrist. Most likely, she can feel Lexa’s galloping pulse, and Lexa hopes it can tell her what Lexa won’t say.

 

“So,” Clarke says. She pulls Lexa’s hand by the wrist and places it on her thigh.

 

Lexa freezes. A longing as strong as a fist, as a firework, hits her from behind the sternum. She loses her breath. She looks at her hand on Clarke’s leg and imagines it on Clarke’s everywhere. Her fingers clench and her nails press into Clarke’s perfect skin.

 

Clarke makes a noise in her throat. This is nothing like that kiss before. Death is not imminent. Their hands are as clean as they will ever be. They are not children in secret, they are women and the burning sun is their witness.

 

“Perhaps we should return home,” Lexa says. Clarke is staring at her mouth, and Lexa’s lips are burning and she twitches her hand a millimeter up Clarke’s leg.

 

Clarke’s eyelashes flutter. “Yeah,” she says, voice low. “It’s much too hot out here.”

 

+

 

Safe behind the door to Lexa’s room, Clarke turns on her. Traps her between Clarke’s body and the door. “I came to find you,” she says.

 

Lexa can wait or Lexa can fight, and so she waits. She looks over Clarke’s shoulder. The curtains are picked up by moving air, and Lexa smells rain on the breeze.

 

Clarke puts her hand on Lexa’s chin. “Look at me,” she says. “I came to find you. I’m eighteen and I love you and I found you and you didn’t tell me?”

 

Lexa swallows hard. Clarke’s hand is near her throat, and her fingers tense. “I did not know you wished to hear it,” Lexa says softly.

 

Clarke leans in close to Lexa’s face. “Tell me.”

 

“I do not wish to be alone, Clarke. I do not wish to suffer any longer. Survival is no excuse for cowardice.” Lexa says it and Clarke’s eyes glisten with something like relief.

 

“I could die,” Clarke says. She drops her hand, takes the last step until her body is actually touching Lexa’s. “You could die. We could go to war. You could learn to hate me for the person I am when everything isn’t burning down.”

 

“Yes,” Lexa says. “That is true. But I have far greater worries than that I have misjudged you.”

 

Clarke’s mouth opens and then closes.

 

“I should tell you, anyone who touched me that way,” Lexa says, running a thumb across the bruise in the shape of Clarke’s thumb just beginning under Lexa’s jawbone, “would be punished very severely.”

 

Clarke takes a step back and loosens the tie at her waist. She looks Lexa in the eye for a long moment, before she says, “Then punish me.”

 

+

 

Clarke’s body is pliant and sweat-slick. Lexa kisses Clarke’s stomach and Clarke hisses.

 

Lexa is over her on the bed. Clarke is naked and perfect in the dimming light. A storm is blowing in, and Lexa smells ozone and Clarke’s skin.

 

Lexa unbuttons her tunic, one slow button at a time. Clarke watches Lexa’s fingers like she’s worried she’ll miss something important. When Lexa’s breasts are uncovered, Clarke literally gasps.

 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Clarke says quietly. Her hands are on Lexa’s hips, and they curl reflexively when Lexa kisses her. Clarke mumbles something against her mouth as incomprehensible as Lexa’s _trigedasleng_ must sound.

 

Clarke’s body is new and unfamiliar and soft. Lexa maps her with mouth and hands, but hesitates at Clarke’s thighs. Lexa’s hands shake as she thinks of touching Clarke, as she thinks of fucking Clarke.

 

Clarke pushes up on her elbows, looks very seriously at Lexa, eyes dark. “Lexa,” she says gently. “It doesn’t have to be perfect unless it’s the only time we’re going to do this.” She smiles, spreads her legs a little more. “So?”

 

Clarke tastes of newly dried salt and the juice sucked from fresh sugarcane. She is wet, very wet, and she hooks her leg over Lexa’s shoulder.

 

Cool air slips in through the open window, and Lexa’s skin feels feverish. Clarke’s clit is hard under her tongue. Lexa laps at it, and Clarke writhes. “Lexa,” she moans. “Lexa, I’m sorry.”

 

Lexa loops her arm around Clarke’s leg. She uses her fingers to hold Clarke open, and strokes at Clarke’s opening with the fingers of her other hand. Clarke sounds strangled when she says, “I’m sorry I stayed away.”

 

When Clarke comes around Lexa’s fingers, she is loud and her voice can probably be heard down the whole street. “Lexa,” sounds ripped from Clarke’s throat as she tightens around Lexa’s fingers again and again. She grabs a handful of Lexa’s hair and pulls hard until Lexa meets her eyes. “I meant it,” Clarke says or sobs or laughs, and Lexa can hardly tell the difference anymore. “I meant everything I said.”

 

“I love you, too, Clarke,” Lexa says and it may be ridiculous, but it is also true, and she’ll worry about the consequences when they come.

 

The storm finally arrives in earnest. Lexa feels the thunder rumble all the way through her chest. Clarke says, “My turn.”

 

+

 

Lexa is sharply aware of the open window, the rain blowing in and the cold kisses of the drops on her skin. She is sharply aware of the guards just outside the door, of the twitching muscle over her right eye.

 

She is sharply aware of how long it has been since anyone has touched her. Clarke’s mouth is against her throat, tongue and teeth, and Clarke whispers, “I’ve never, with a woman.”

 

Lexa would laugh if she had the capacity for it, but instead she tilts her head back farther and says, “I will show you.”

 

When Lexa guides Clarke’s hand to her pussy, guides two fingers inside, Clarke sinks her teeth into Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa shouts, guards be damned, “Clarke, fuck, Clarke.”

 

It has been so long. Clarke’s fingers are off-rhythm and absolutely perfect anyway, and Lexa’s fingers are on her own clit. She feels everything growing inside her until she is shaking like a chrysalis before it bursts.

 

Clarke whimpers as she watches, watches Lexa’s mouth open, watches Lexa’s hands, watches her own fingers slide deep into Lexa. She says, “You like this,” like it’s a surprise and this time Lexa does laugh.

 

“Is it so obvious?” Lexa asks, teeth gritted.

 

Lightning flashes, and Clarke’s hair is a halo as Clarke says, “I like this.”

 

“Show me,” Lexa moans.

 

Clarke takes Lexa’s hand and presses it to her own wetness, and Lexa’s fingers slip inside and when Lexa comes, it’s like being hit by lightning over and over again.

 

When she opens her eyes, Clarke is riding her hand. Clarke says, “I didn’t know. I had no idea.”

 

+

 

Morning light skitters in over the window sill. Clarke is snoring. Her legs are tangled in the sheet and her naked back is marked by paler scars.

 

Lexa lies still. She can wait until Clarke wakes. Later, they can share sweet summer strawberries and discuss politics.

 

But now she can be patient. The day will be hot but Clarke’s skin is cool and soft. Lexa listens to Clarke’s breath and smiles.

 

Lexa’s heart flutters like a new thing, like a new moth drying its wings in the sun.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title/summary from ee cummings.
> 
> i'm over on tumblr at miserybznz.


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